


Rescued

by moonblossom



Series: Prompt Fills, Remixes, Works inspired by others [18]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Awkwardness, Fluff, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-02 07:07:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock sets out to rescue John. But in the end it's John who rescues Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rescued

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this [lovely post by martinfreeman](http://martinfreeman.tumblr.com/post/58006099171/john-getting-kidnapped-and-sherlock-bursting) on tumblr:  
>  _john getting kidnapped and sherlock bursting through the door to rescue him and trying to untie him and but his hands are shaking too badly while john is perfectly calm and ends up soothing sherlock and promising him that everything’s fine while he’s still tied to a chair_

The pounding in his ears is getting louder, threatening to overwhelm Sherlock entirely. It’s the thrumming of the engines in the basement of the building. It’s the thudding of his heels on the lino, echoing through the corridor. Most of all though, it’s the furious beating of his heart in his ears. It all sounds the same. _John. John. Johnjohnjohn._

He slows his pace and rounds a corner, taking in a lazy-looking armed guard standing by a door. He'd surmised John was being held nearby; it's nice to have confirmation. Sherlock's eyes glance over the guard, studying him. His posture is apathetic and disinterested; he's probably been here for several hours. Guard down. Excellent. Wearing a padded vest, but a cheap one. Irrelevant - Sherlock has no plans to kill him. Silently, he creeps up behind the guard, nearly frustrated by the ease with which he approaches. Doesn't anyone hire decent thugs anymore?

Rolling his eyes, he pulls John's gun out of one of the Belstaff's many pockets and clips the guard behind the ear with the butt of the handle. He sinks like a stone, no doubt never even aware of Sherlock's presence. Sherlock stuffs a flannel into his mouth in case he wakes and binds his hands and feet with a zip tie.

The lock on the door is a painfully basic combination keypad. It's old, and dingy, and the keys are greasy and faded with frequent use. He reaches up, ready to enter the code (2-0-8-2, he wonders briefly if it represents anything important or if they were smart enough to assign something random), and sees his hand shaking. He curses inwardly, blaming fatigue, adrenaline, hunger. Anything's better than the truth. Sherlock's heart pounds. John's on the other side of this door. 

He manages to get the door open, and for a moment he is blind. The room is pitch black. There is a faint hiss of discomfort and a muffled noise from deep in the room. John's aware the door is open then, and he must be blindfolded. If he's been in a room this dim for any period of time, the amount of light coming in through the door would warrant much more than the quiet noise John's just made - even if he's attempting to keep quiet.

"Sherlock?" John's voice betrays him. He's attempting to remain calm, but there's a slight hitch on the L. A hitch that Sherlock feels echoing through his chest.

Gingerly, he closes the door, leaving a foot's width open to let the light in. His eyes have adjusted now, and he scans the room quickly.

The sight of John knocks the air out of Sherlock's lungs. Below the blindfold, there is a scrape along his cheekbone, and a bruise forming beneath it. His hands are cuffed behind his back and chained to the metal chair. His shoulder is tense - no doubt causing him discomfort, pinned at such an awkward angle. Otherwise, John appears clean and unharmed. There is a small, sardonic smile on his face.

"Thought you'd never get here, Sherlock. Get bored and distracted on the way over?"

Sherlock frowns slightly. John is blindfolded, and he has yet to say a single word. It frustrates him that he can't quite pin something down. He hates not knowing everything. Blames his fatigue again. He's absolutely not off his game because John was in danger.

"How did y--"

John cuts him off. "You think I haven't learnt to recognise your footsteps yet? Also that great bloody coat. It's got a very distinctive sound. It swooshes."

"My coat does not _swoosh_ ," Sherlock huffs, but he is relieved. John is in good spirits. And a fair bit more observant than Sherlock gives him credit for sometimes.

In order to quell his trembling hands, Sherlock reaches out.

"I am going to remove your blindfold. It's dim in here, but the door is open a fraction."

John nods, tilting his head to the side. The blindfold is flimsy and cheap; merely a scrap of fabric tied behind John's left ear. Sherlock's fingers fumble slightly as he undoes it, and he strokes the outer curve of John's helix. John's breath catches in his throat, knocking some sense into Sherlock, who hastily unties the rest of it. He drops the blindfold on the floor and stares down at John.

John grins at Sherlock despite his predicament, his eyes sparkling in the dark, and Sherlock is suddenly aware that the room is shaking. An earthquake? _Now_? He racks his brain, trying to remember the proper protocol to handle the situation briefly, before realising that the room is, in fact, perfectly still. Sherlock's legs are trembling. Violently.

"Hey, hey... Sherlock." John's voice is a steadying force, a boulder in the eye of a hurricane. "Sit down. It's fine. You're here. It's fine. We’re fine."

John is repeating himself, which would normally irritate Sherlock profoundly, but right now he just wants to hear that soft, soothing voice tell him it's fine a few more times. He drops to the ground with a thud, barely aware of the cold, hard concrete impacting with his body. Scuttling forward, he leans over and rests his head on John's knee. Why isn't John patting his head? John, with his strange predilection for useless physical contact. Isn't it obvious Sherlock actually needs comfort right now? 

Sherlock kicks himself mentally. John's hands are still cuffed behind him. As if he can read Sherlock's mind, John shakes his hands, rattling the chain to make a point. "Go on then. Unless you don't think you can pick them?" John's voice is teasing.

"Don't be an idiot, of course I can." The banter is soothing, putting Sherlock back in familiar territory. He gets up off the floor and dusts off his trousers. His legs are still trembling, but that's merely because he was sitting on them all wrong. Of course it is.

The handcuffs are cold and unyielding, an unfamiliar maker, and Sherlock wrestles with the lock mechanism for several minutes. The clatter of the chain echoes through the darkness as Sherlock fumbles with his picks. It's dark. He can't see properly. That is positively the only reason this is taking so long. John, intelligently, keeps his thoughts to himself, but Sherlock can read the muffled amusement in the line of his shoulders.

He continues attempting to get them open for far longer than necessary and has no choice but to admit his hands are shaking far too much. A strangled, frustrated noise escapes his lips as he drops to the ground again. He presses his cheek against the frame of John's chair, the cool metal digging into his cheek. John manages to ruffle his hair with one finger. Not enough. Better than nothing.

"Deep breath, Sherlock."

"I am _fine_!" he snaps, pulling away. He sits up and resumes working on the infernal cuffs.

"When was the last time you ate?" John's voice is chiding and gentle all at once. If Sherlock believed in superpowers, John's would undoubtedly be some form of annoying nagging.

"How long have you been in here?"

"About thirty-six hours is my estimate."

"Thirty-seven hours ago, then." They'd just had curry before John vanished.

John sighs, and Sherlock can hear the smile behind it. "I've been locked up in here and even I've eaten more recently than that. You're a tit, you know."

Fuelled by sheer stubbornness and the need to prove John wrong, Sherlock finally gets the cuffs open, shouting triumphantly as they clatter to the ground. His body sagging with relief, he presses his face against the small of John's back through the slats of the chair. John laughs softly as he rolls his shoulders, loosening them.

"It's over, yeah? Everything's fine now." John's fingers are running through Sherlock's hair, tugging lightly at the roots, and how on earth did John even know good that would feel? "You think you're ready to get up? I'm gonna need help. Haven’t been on my feet since they let me up last night. To, uh, go to the loo."

Why would John even ask if Sherlock was ready to get up? _He_ 's the one who's trembling, after all, not Sherlock. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock sits up and realises the twitching he felt against his cheek wasn't John after all. The fact that his body is still panicking only seems to make things worse, and he leans back on his hands, scrambling away from John slightly.

Turning around in the chair, John looks down at him. His face is serious, but kind.

"It's okay, Sherlock. It's okay. Haven't you ever had an adrenaline crash before? God knows you've been in enough situations to warrant one." 

Sherlock is staring at John, unable to think of anything to say. Which is incredibly frustrating. 

John smiles down at him again. "Sherlock?"

Every time John says his name, Sherlock's heart pounds, but it's a different sort of thudding now. Not anxiety. Something deeper. He sucks in a breath through his teeth and runs his hands through his hair. Not John's hands, but they'll do for now.

"I find myself far more... emotionally invested than usual." He scowls slightly as he says it. Admitting weakness.

With a stiff, awkward slowness that pains Sherlock far more than it should, John raises himself up off the chair. Wincing, he drops down onto the ground and faces Sherlock. Tentatively, he reaches out and pats Sherlock on the knee. Without the safe barrier of the handcuffs, the touching feels almost inappropriate now, but Sherlock laps it up eagerly.

"So what you're saying is you missed me?" Damn that twinkle in John's eyes. And damn the way the light from the hallway highlights his dusty hair, and damn the crinkling of his cheeks as he smiles. Sherlock feels all his anxiety ebbing away as he stares at John's impossible face.

"Better now?"

"Strangely, yes." And it's true. He's not trembling anymore, and his heart only pounds harder whenever John rubs his thumb over Sherlock's knee. Sherlock wonders if John can hear it, because as he does it again, he looks down at his own hand in shock, as if he hadn't realised he was doing it. He pulls his hand away and Sherlock stands up.

He dusts himself off yet again and holds a hand out to John, who takes it gratefully and without comment. Sherlock hoists John to his feet and gives him a moment to stabilise. John shifts his weight back and forth a bit, obviously trying to get the blood flowing back to his feet.

"Wiggle your toes." Sherlock is glad to have useful information to give again. He's tired of feeling like a dead weight, like a victim of his own useless emotions.

"Ta, Sherlock. I never would have thought of that. You know, it's not like I'm a doctor. Or have military training, or anything."

Sherlock scowls, ready to snap out a retort, but the grin John gives him distracts him again.

"Alright. I'm good. I think." John takes a few steps and Sherlock, unthinking, reaches out to balance him, but he seems to have his legs back.

And not a moment too soon, either. There's a series of heavy footfalls down the corridor and a shout of alarm as the guards no doubt notice their incapacitated colleague. 

"Shit," John's curse is muffled, barely loud enough for Sherlock to hear, and certainly not loud enough to carry out into the hall. "Wish I had a weapon."

Finally, Sherlock is able to be the dashing hero. He pulls John's gun out of his pocket and hands it over with a flourish. He grins at John, expecting eager praise.

Instead, John glares at him, eyes narrowed.

"Sherlock. I have told you. Stop. Stealing. My gun."

"I borrowed it! You weren't using it!"

The footsteps are getting louder, and thankfully John decides there is a better time for this argument. Hopefully he will come to his senses before they get home and understand the necessity of Sherlock carrying it. 

John checks the magazine and clicks off the safety. The sight of it in John’s capable hands sends a thrill down Sherlock's spine, one he's not particularly keen to dwell on right now. As one, Sherlock and John turn to look at each other.

"Together?" John grins up at him again; there's a sharp, eager glint in his eyes.

Sherlock nods. "Together."


End file.
